Family Means
by 1crazyhorse
Summary: Sam and Dean are as close as brothers can get, but what happens when an outside force tries to tear the two apart by means of kidnapping and magic. Will the brothers retain their bond? Will Sam be saved?


**Family Means**

A/N Hi I'm 1Crazyhorse this is my first fanfic so please be kind and review to let me know how I did. If you like the story you can thank my fever-dream I had caused by a cold, a chocolate peppermint cupcake, and some Ibuprofen. This story is set around season two. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer I do not own SPN or any of it's characters this is purely for fun, though given the chance to steal them I_ would_ do it in a heartbeat. Have a nice day.

"I'm telling you man I hate witches." Dean says as he drives down the road at a much too fast speed. "I always have and I always will. They're just so…" Dean pauses looking for the right word but unable to properly meet one that expresses the level of disgust he feels, instead he makes a noise in the back of his throat much akin to that of a gagging sound, followed by a shudder. He sighs "Disgusting".

Sam looks at him incredulously slightly amused by his brother's antics "Are you done?"

Dean rolls his eyes, "Yeah I'm done, it's just.. Witches, man. I fucking hate witches."

Sam nods in understanding, "I hate them too, but it doesn't mean you get to complain all the way to Denver, the job needs to get done. How far away are we anyway?"

Pretending to check a watch that isn't on his wrist Dean takes a dramatic sigh, "Oh I'd say a couple more. SEVEN hours." He smiles ever so slightly, knowing his stunt will get on Sam's nerves. "Why you got somewhere to be Princess?" Sam purses his lips as if tasting something bitter, "Ya' know what? Just wake me when we get there, I'm tired from researching this case for us all night." Sam settles into the passenger seat, leaning against the window preparing to take his well-deserved nap. Not two seconds later Sam feels a hard push on his shoulder, "Don't fall asleep on me just yet Sammy, I still need to hear the details on the witchy bitch we're hunting."

He groans "Can't you wait till we get there?" Dean shakes his head stubbornly, "Nope. No better time than the present, you already know this case backwards and forwards, so spill. What's the bitch's deal?"

Sam rolls his eyes full knowing Dean is trying to get under his skin more than anything else, but he relents, "Multiple people have gone missing in the Denver area, a majority of them men, only one or two women. Out of everyone that went missing only one person has been found, and he's been hospitalized since, barely said a word to the police except for a vague description of his kidnapper, a brunette woman who somehow overpowered him."

Dean hums a little in thought, "Any particular reason the kidnapee ain't talking?"

Sam nods, "The police think he's suffering from a sort of Stockholm Syndrome, that maybe he doesn't really _want _his kidnapper to get caught." Dean responds, "Do you think the witch cast some freaky mojo on him to make him not want to get her caught?" Sam considers this, "It's possible, but why would the witch go through all the hassle of casting a spell and releasing him when she coulda just killed him."

Dean scoffs gently, "No shit Sherlock, I was thinkin more that she cast a spell on him as a fail-safe in case he escaped" Sam's face was a cross between annoyance at Dean's crassness and exhaustion from staying up all night, he runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I could see that angle too, the point is we won't know for sure till we interview the victim." Dean responds, "Mmhmm, and that's if he'll talk to us at all." Sam settles back in against the passenger window to fall asleep, "We'll deal with that when we get there. Won't know more till then, wake me when we get to the motel."

Dean waves his hand slightly in reassurance, "Yeah, yeah, just get some sleep princess, you're acting all bitchy" Sam flips Dean the bird before slowly drifting to sleep.

Lydia hums some unknown song to herself while holding some herbs in a jar, she's a small unassuming woman, no taller than 5'6 to 5'7, her brunette hair braided tastefully down to her waist. Making her way down to her basement she continues humming her song, it's sweet in tune but sounds as if there is an unknown malice behind the noise. Closing and locking the door behind her she walks down the stairs, past the young man tied to the chair at the corner of the stairs as casually as one would walk by a box that had been sitting and gathering dust, forever there and never touched.

In the center of the basement sits a table with a large bowl and several smaller jars. Lydia places her herbs on the table and starts mixing together her concoction, knowing the recipe by heart now having mixed it dozens of times before. A groan is heard from the corner of the room as the young man comes too, he's no older than 23. The confusion is visible on his face as he finds himself tied down to a chair, the confusion quickly shifts to visible panic as he takes a deep breath and starts yelling. "HELP!" The young man starts to hyperventilate as he calls out, "SOMEBODY!"

Lydia's head snaps up in surprise not quite expecting her captive to wake up yet, she rolls her eyes in distaste at his behavior extending her hand and commanding, "_etiam lingua vestra._"

The captive scream for help is interrupted as his voice shuts off halfway through the word. His breathing as labored as ever, as he falls even more into a panic. Starting to struggle even fiercer against his bonds.

Lydia saunters her way over to stand in front of the captive her voice as soothing and silky as her humming had been, that understated malice and threat in her voice twice as obvious as it had been, as she clicks her tongue at him. "Tsk, tsk. Now why would you go and make noises like that? I thought you wanted to head back to my place and 'see what happens'?" She laughs at his own words she had quoted to his face, her laughter ringing like a bell throughout the basement, it would have been endearing in a different circumstance. She stares down her captive looking him up and down as a cat would look at a bird it was about to kill purely for the fun of it. "Just because the evening didn't swing your way, you're gonna make a big old fuss? Is that anyway to treat a lady?"

She sighs, quickly becoming bored of asking questions to the terror-stricken man who couldn't answer even if he wanted to. She walks back over to her mixing bowl and continues her spell. "You know, this could be looked at as a good thing for you. You see the only reason you're here is because you caught my eye." She giggles as she holds up an actual eyeball for his viewing pleasure before tossing it in her bowl. She continues on, "You. Are a strapping young man, tall, and strong, precisely what I need in a slave."

She looks at him, searching for a reaction only telling him any of her reasoning for shock value, her face turns bitter when all she's sees on his face is more panic instead off shock. She sighs, and keeps talking anyway, "I've had several over the many decades you see, none of them have ever quite" She searches for a word. "fit. They're always too whiny, not obedient enough, not as strong as I had assumed them to be, overall just very disappointing." She stills her hands on either side of the bowl, seeming to get genuinely frustrated at the thoughts of her past captives. "If I'm being honest a lot of them were pain in the asses."

She claps her hands together in finality, snapping herself out of whatever thoughts she had just sunken into, "Well. No matter. You'll be different I can feel it. And especially since you can't talk." She squeals slightly, in a very schoolgirl manner, "You'll be perfect. There's no way you can disobey or backtalk." At this point she seems to be speaking more to herself than anyone as she picks up the bowl and walks over to the captive. "Of course, I have tried casting that particular spell on past slaves, just because you can't talk doesn't mean you can't rebel."

Her eyes drift away past him, "I wouldn't recommend it though, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, and it'd be a shame to mark up that pretty face of yours." Her eyes flit back to his malice and joy mixed in her eyes in a terrifying unspoken threat, as he stares at her in complete terror. "Don't worry dear, I'll only do it if I have to. Just don't fight back." She tips the bowl ever so slightly above his exposed arm. She smiles in a consoling way, her face complete opposite of what her eyes display. "This will only hurt a little." She dumps the contents of the bowl over his arm and says the well-practiced words to her spell, as the contents of the bowl sizzle and burn a mark into his skin. A brand mark of ownership. The captive strains against his bonds, his entire body arcing in agony, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream.


End file.
